Til You See Their Soul
by shakespeareia
Summary: Sheltered for so long, living a shadow of a life… in the forest, one grows up quickly. Destinies are questioned, and futures are altered. A "What-If" story.
1. Chapter 1

The fire had banked with the hours, leaving behind only a few traces of glowing ash to light the darkness.

Darkness... Dark. She hadn't liked the dark, when she'd been little. No, that was putting it too mildly. It had terrified her, the shadows, the depth, the too-large canvas that imagination could fill with all manner of evil and monsters...

Until that night, when the monsters became all too real, and she'd been locked away in a stone tomb, living death, without a single light to beat away the shadows.

She learned to fight the fear quickly.

Most of their disparate party had bedded down for the night, the gemshorn and rebec tucked safe and quiet in the arms of their diminutive musicians, like mothers guarding their children. The low grunts of muttered conversation could still be heard by the half-dead fire as Gort and Beouf availed themselves of the remaining grog.

Snow allowed herself a quiet smile at their expense as she leaned against her chosen tree-trunk and leaf couch for the night – to think, once she'd drifted to sleep nested in fur, velvet, fine linen... It seemed a dream now, lifetimes ago... in many ways, perhaps it had been...

Her eyes snapped open with a start as something coarse and leathery brushed her cheek, settling along the length of her slight body.

"Mm -?"

"Winters've been 'arsher a'late." Came the gruff reply as a familiar rough-hewn figure thudded down next to her with a rattle of axes. "Ye're no good 'alf frozen."

She blinked, heart fluttering, and tugged the deerskin a little closer with a mumble of thanks. He made no reply, tugging several hatchets from his belt, along with a skin of fish oil. There was no sound apart from the banking embers, the muffled voices of the few still-sober dwarves, and a metallic scraping as the huntsman shaved the daily rust accumulation from his arsenal.

"... Is it easy?" Snow startled herself with her own voice. "Taking lives?"

She had spoken softly enough, for an aching moment she wondered if he'd heard her at all, before the grating of iron abruptly stopped.

"It might've been. Once."

Snow swallowed back her remaining mettle.

"...What's your name?"

He grunted.

"What difference does it make – "

"Please..."

A sigh, and then –

"Eric." He muttered, digging at something in the cloddy soil. "Eric the Woodsman, Eric the Blacksmith, Eric the Huntsman, Eric the damned fool..."

She choked on her words a moment, before pushing on.

What had her father said once?

_Never allow what is closest to your soul to remain enchained, my darling – else it will fester and rot into grief._

"Eric, I... I don't want to kill. I... I want to live. I want a life."

He smirked humorlessly.

"It's no' worth the trouble, I promise ye –"

" – I want to be free, to live, to speak, to love, to _breathe, _I want - "

"Ye think the world gives a damn what _you_ want, your 'ighness? It all sounds very pretty, I'll grant ye, but outside 'o your fairy glens and nursery cradles –"

The barrage came to a sudden halt as Snow pulled herself upright and pressed her mouth to his lips, delicate white fingers cradling his dirt-smudged face.

Within moments it was as if a dam had broken, his scarred hands clutching at her tiny waist, trapping her beneath him on the twisted deerskin. Finn's ugly smile flashed in front of her eyes for an instant as he made quick work of her gown laces, the sound of tearing leather echoing through the quiet night, yet she buried her hands in Eric's unwashed hair and forced her gaze on his face.

It seemed to take only mere moments, and perhaps it did, his body chiseled with hard-earned muscle and brutal scars from men and beasts, the wound on his chest still not quite healed – she could feel the thickening flesh against her breast as he finally rucked her stained shift up and over her head, leaving them skin to skin. Her breath caught in her throat when his hands found her waist yet again, working her hips up as their tongues tangled, her half-frightened whimpers caught in between.

_Hush – you wanted this, you wanted him..._

"Tell me if – it doesn' have ta hurt, if you don't let it." He muttered, stroking her hair back from her brow, and with a flash of confusion – _who _is _he? _– Snow nodded, and clutched the back of his neck, his stench surrounding her, dirt, oil, blood, hard drink, and sweat...

A push, a wince, and her innocence was over. Shudders rippled through her body as she wrapped fragile limbs around him tightly and held on, as if afraid he'd vanish, leaving her bare and vulnerable... Leaving her. Emotions she couldn't quite fathom surged from her belly outward, blood rushing in her veins, her skin seemed to shrink and tighten with every thrust, and Eric was breathing hot against her neck, his beard rough to the touch as it rubbed her cheek raw, both his hands drifting down her waist to her hips, gripping her tightly, guiding her into the rhythm, teaching her the movements as he had taught her to wield a dagger. She kept as quiet as she could, besides her labored breathing and the occasional startled gasp, whimper, Eric grunting into her ear as he rutted.

A sudden tremor went through his shoulder blades, followed by few sharp thrusts before he stilled completely, drawing her pelvis up tight against him. Her breath froze, anxious, uncertain, as she brushed a tentative kiss over the filthy skin of his neck. An uncomfortable tug, a muffled groan, and he pulled away slowly, his face shadowed. Snow lay quietly on the deerskin, trembling, as he scrubbed at his mouth with the back of one hand, spitting over his shoulder before grasping a white thigh in each palm.

"What – " she began, startled, before he slid a hand up her belly.

"Lie back."

Snow did as she was told, still shaking. Her green eyes darted randomly, staring up at the moon before flitting to the trees nearby, the rocks scattered by the food satchels, the dead leaves next to her fingers... crushed suddenly as her hand tightened, fingers scrabbling for purchase in the soil and dry grass as a sound caught between a gasp and a cry escaped her rose-red lips. There was no describing the sensation – wet heat, his and her own, hot breath over flushed skin, heavy with surging blood. His hair brushed across the downy skin of her inner thigh, his enormous hands clutching her waist tightly as she wriggled – but whether to escape or draw him nearer she couldn't say. After what seemed an age, her hips gave a twitch and she screamed, heart pounding in her breast while Eric roughly caressed his way up her body, pulling her in close to his chest and crushing his mouth to her lips in a searing kiss. Her joints seemed liquified as she wreathed her arms about his neck, returning the embrace with as much passion as she could muster, all the strain and tension of the past days that had somehow transformed itself into desire...

Suddenly Eric pulled back, blue eyes almost glowing in the dark but colored with horror, as if he'd only just noticed her. The shock gradually faded, until he managed to pat her shoulder awkwardly.

"... C'mon." he murmured, thick arms wrapping across her back as he half-guided, half-lifted her into a sitting position, dropping her shift into her lap before he shucked up his leggings and gave her dark head a rough pat, as he might a child.

For a long moment Snow could stare after him, shaken, open-mouthed, as he tugged his shirt over his head and made his way back to the fire ring. The cold quickly raised gooseflesh across her skin, the fleeting sensation of delicious lightness and freedom gone within an instant. Twigs crackled near the dead fire, as Gus caught her gaze, wide-eyed, for a brief moment before Gort smacked him upside the head, and he turned his back quickly, a blush rising to both their faces. Her jaw trembling, Snow dug her arms into the pitiful heap of dirty fabric, yanking the torn collar over her head with unnecessary violence, before flinging herself back into her leaf bed, biting her lip as she fought back tears until her eyes finally drifted shut.

* * *

It was barely past dawn when she awoke to find a cold sun glowing over her face, and with a rush of warmth, recognized the weight of a callused, over familiar hand resting on the back of her neck. She twisted round slowly, noticing the bear pelt thrown over her body, and smiled quietly at the sight of her huntsman slumped – still asleep – against the tree trunk, the hand not holding her protectively resting on the hilt of his enormous battle axe.

**A.N. - So, you know how you originally think you're just writing a smutty little one-shot, and then PLOT has to come and worm it's way into your brain? That's what's happened here. No idea how long this will be, I'm just going along for the ride. Hope you all enjoy it too. ;)**


	2. Chapter 2

Icy water splashed his face, sobering. Mayhap he'd come to his senses for the first time in weeks.

A rattle of mail disturbed the relative quiet of the stream, as a squat-statured figure crouched beside him on small, booted feet, his grizzled beard reflected in the rippling water.

"When I asked ye what was in it for ye, I'd 'ardly considered –"

"Spare me, Beith." Eric groaned, running wet fingers through his dirt engrained hair. "The lass begged for it and I lost my 'ead, a'right? It won' 'appen again – "

The dwarf guffawed humorlessly.

"Christ lad, don't think I give a beaver's shite whether or not ye fuck the girl into nex' Tuesday, but there's others 'o my brethren what won't look so kindly on ye for it. Gus's taken a bit o' a wee fancy to her, Gort's softenin', and Muir's likely ta preach yer ears deaf until the sky rains fire."

The huntsman glanced up, eyebrows raised.

"Wha', they know?"

Beith rolled his eyes.

"Ye might not 'ave taken notice, occupied as ye were, but there was scarce more'n eight feet a'tween us and yer little scatterin' o' the oats – a man'd 'ave to be deaf not to 'ear the racket ye were kickin' up. Tell yer little princess to learn a few tricks when it comes to keepin' her jaws shut."

Grumbling, Eric clambered back to his feet, leaning heavily on his axe.

"I'll be savin' myself the trouble and keepin' to my own bed – ye can sleep soundly now on."

"eh, Good luck keepin' the lass to 'er's," Beith snorted. "A blind man could see the way she looks at ye –"

"Then she'll 'ave to live with an achin' belly an' 'ungry loins like the rest of us wretches, won' she?" he shot back, with unnecessary vehemence. The dwarf paused a moment before speaking, dark eyes slitted.

"Bleedin' Jesus, yer a greater fool than I ever credited ye for –"

"Ye've no – "

" – The world's dyin' around ye, ye spend yer days carryin' the stink of death for naught but a few rotted scraps, wee runts tear each other apart for dead rats in the mud as their brothers' skeletons melt in cages above their 'eads, and yet for all that a 'alf pretty whelp thinks yer worth 'er time an' maiden'ead – "

"She could find better 'an me in 'alf a week – I'm no' given a starry-eyed piglet any fodder to weave dreams on! She's wasted enough o' value on me already." Eric growled, shuffling his way back through the frosty underbrush and leaving the dwarf with naught but his reflection for company.

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall..."

It was a futile question, one the mirror knew all too well, yet the Queen could not lay down her last lingering, desperate hopes. The forest was choked with dangers, after all, and... tragedies... were all too common.

"Tell me... _TELL ME!"_

The roar split through her torso, bringing her guts up into her throat, as the mirror oozed and ran like golden honey across the stone floor, coming to rest at her feet as the being beneath rose from his unseen slumber.

_"She lives, my Queen.. of no worth to you, or any who exalt in her fate ."_

Her heart stuttered inside her chest, her beautifully sculpted limbs trembling with something not quite shock, or quite anger.

_ "For two falls of the sun and moon, she has lain upon the ensmeared ground, her purity tainted with the knowledge of men. Her innocence sullied by the lasciviousness of the human heart."_

The queen's wavering ceased in an instant, her jeweled eyes wide and darkening with rage. Her voice quivered, fragile as a child's.

"Her heart...?"

_"Of no avail to your ills, my Queen...when it is promised by desire and lechery, to a huntsman."_

The hundred ravens within the rafters fluttered about in alarm, as their mistress's scream shattered the diamond-cut glass of the windows, the ebony boards upon the floor rippling and splintering in a cloud of black dust – votives at the mirror's base flickered and lost their flame, the wax melting into puddles of ivory milk, as the peasants in the village below huddled for shelter against the sudden icy gale, hailstones and shards of frost shearing through the wind like glass...

... Ravenna slowly raised her gaze to the unmoving figure in gold, her body twisted like a weathered root at his feet. Blood stained her fingertips, tasted bitter on her lips and the roof of her mouth; her scalp throbbed, her silver-gold hair torn to ragged wisps, every scrap of furniture or thread of a once-lovely gown littered in destroyed shambles about her.

The mirror-man simply gazed down sightlessly, his liquid golden robes reflecting back her lined face, spotted with age and exhaustion.

Shuddering with cold and horror, Ravenna curled down to the splintered floor on her belly like a snake. If only, like the snake, she could writhe free of the corpse-skin she inhabited, and find herself anew.

Drops of blood slipped down each grey, porcelain cheek, landing upon the black wood and mingling with her tears.

She hadn't expected love to come so easily.

The minstrels in her father's banquet hall had sung of love with greater fervor than any battle or tale of heroics they spun to the tune of their lyres or lutes, regaling the court with pretty words and impassioned legends of knights who battled monsters for the hand of a lovely princess, handsome peasant boys who won a lady through some bold display of cleverness, men and boys who accomplished incredible feats and braved unspeakable perils to "win" the love of some indescribably beautiful girl. Like they might win a throne or a chest of gold, and live forever in perfect happiness and good fortune.

In their words, love was a battle.

Perhaps, in some ways, they were right. After all, battle brought wounds. Wounds brought pain.

Celibacy had never seemed such a hardship before, even if Snow had only known the word through half-remembered sermons given by the Bishop when she was barely seven years old. Ten years of ignorance, locked in a tower room, suddenly seemed a blessing compared to the purgatory being imposed upon her by a man nearly twice her own age, and for what good reason? Many girls in her father's kingdom were married and flushed with motherhood by their fifteenth winter, often to men old enough to have fathered the girls themselves. How many of those young women felt an honest pull towards the men charged by the church with bedding them - an act she had yet to cease blushing at the thought of – a fluttering through the whole of the body every moment he was near, dirt ingrained hands catching at her own slender fingers or her waist to help her cross the distance spanning a stream or from rock to outcropping... The heavy wool coat hanging too-large around her shoulders, reeking of grog and stiffened by old sweat, the memories invoked by the stench enough send her heart stuttering at times...

A more worldly young woman might have questioned the validity of her own feelings, but after a decade with no company but her own, Snow hardly knew enough of her own mind, let alone the rest of the world. It was love, she couldn't doubt it.

Eyeing the huntsman from across the fire, Snow allowed her imagination to wander freely for the thousandth time that day alone – visions of a golden ring glittering on her finger, as she'd seen decorating her mother's hand, placed there in either a cathedral or a blacksmith's soot-covered forge, anywhere, as long as he were the man to guide it in place. The dream expanded, revealing a manorial cottage without a spot of dirt in sight, a blue-eyed child twisting rags in the sunlit corner to form a doll, toy animals carved from wood littering the surrounding floor in a little pile... and, at night... perhaps, once again, she'd lie in embroidered sheets...

The huntsman tossed away the empty aleskin, and as blue eyes met her own green Snow realized, mortified, that she'd been staring. Slender fingers frantically shoved greasy strips of dark venison into her mouth, a blood-red flush rising to her pale face.

One of the dwarves snorted into his goblet, though the others seemed to take no notice, carrying on with their evening song. At any other time she might have enjoyed the ballad – something of an outlaw and a giant who battled with short staffs – but in that moment, merriment, however weak, only made her uneasy.

He didn't look away.

Three stanzas later, the dwarves at last began to settle for the night, fur and serge bedrolls tossed out slipshodly against the mouldy ground. Gus had kindly offered up half his own pallet, as the increasing cold made huddling for sheer animal warmth a simple necessity, though she had tucked her feet beneath the stained coat only half a breath before a thick hand clutched at her shoulder.

She didn't ask questions, merely allowed Eric to lead her through the trees with a blushing nod, as she desperately fought to ignore Gus's forlorn gaze or Beiff's cynical, barely muffled laughter.


End file.
